


The Fanged Wizard

by Jubalii



Category: Hellsing
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Older Work, Parody, Rewrite, crackfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-25 01:36:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9796604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: Seras Victoria takes a magical journey across the enchanted world of Oz, meeting challenges and new friends in search of the charismatic red-clad wizard that can take her home. [Rewrite of an old 2013 AU/Crossover Story]





	1. Seras's Predicament

**Author's Note:** I'm rewriting this as of February 2017.... I started this story in May of 2013! Four whole years have passed since then. I mention Emmy being a little kitten in my author's note at that time. Right now, this bulky cat is speed racing through my house with a ball of tin foil from a Hershey's Kiss. Life has changed.... Anyway, I remembered this story existed and wanted to rewrite a little and finish it up for posterity's sake. This is still one of my favorite crack AU stories that I've written, though the unfinished Seras in Wonderland is high on the list as well. Enjoy!

* * *

 

            Clouds hung low over the English countryside, making the quaint landscape look duller than usual. In the absence of sun, the world seemed to be an off-color shade of sepia, browns and grays of lingering winter fighting for dominance with the fresher, pale pastels of wildflowers that grew along the lanes and in the valleys between hillocks. Everything shifted in a breeze that cooled the skin, even though the day itself was a balmy one. The atmosphere was filled with a tension that threatened to snap with thunder and lightning as the cold front crept ever closer to the warm front that lay like a thick April sheet over the land.

            A flurry of movement not caused by the breeze disrupted the calm as a woman ran down the road, her boots kicking up eddies of dust and scattering loose pebbles. As she sprinted down the lane, a large black animal—resembling more a demon than a dog—sped after her through the brush, upsetting flower petals and pollen as well as sending grasshoppers and other newly awakened insects scurrying for their lives.

            As the lane widened into a broad, well-trodden path that ran alongside an asphalt road, the woman stopped to catch her breath. She was nineteen, small in size but built muscularly, with short blonde hair that was as wild as her personality. She rested her hands on her knees, bent over as she took long, slow breaths. The blue and white of her police uniform was a stark contrast to the Venetian  lithograph that seemed to stretch behind her, ending only with the horizon. The dog, pink tongue lolled and panting, came up to her. Even sitting, its head reached her waist, and she often wondered exactly what breed it might be. When he had wandered onto their farm years ago as a puppy, filthy and starving, he had already been the size of a small dog. They'd taken him in and his coat had filled out to a healthy ebony sheen after good food and a bath; he looked so like the tales of beasts and ghosts upon the moors that they had named him after one of the most famous.         

            “She isn't coming after us, Baskerville.” Seras Victoria chanced to stand straight, continuing to fill her lungs with the tumultuous pre-storm air. The dog's massive tail wagged wildly, but he remained seated until she reached to put a hand on his shaggy head. “Did she hurt you?” Naturally, the dog didn't reply, but it did raise its head to lick her forearm with a long tongue. “She tried to, didn't she?” Seras muttered, looking over her shoulder. “C'mon, we'll go tell Aunt Em and Uncle Henry.” She clicked her tongue and he rose to follow her at a more leisurely pace down the road, keeping well away from the speeding cars that raced across the asphalt.

            Seras's home was the tiny Victoria farm, owned by her paternal uncle and his wife. Her parents , when she was no older than four years, had left her with them for a weekend on a 'mini holiday'. In reality, her parents were afraid of backlash from two former convicts who had been released early from prison and would be out for vengeance. Their fear was well-placed, for that was exactly what had happened, and Seras was left in the care of her Aunt Em and Uncle Henry for life. They cared for her as the daughter they never had, and despite lingering dreams about her true parents, her life was a simple, but happy one here on the farm.

            She saw her aunt and uncle hovering around the outdoor incubator, where a supply of fertilized hen's eggs had been sitting for the past few weeks. Seras had been looking forward to when the chicks would hatch, and she could pick them up and feel their soft fuzz against her fingers as they cheeped. As she drew closer, holding her breath, she heard a chorus of peeping. Her uncle turned from the incubator, she saw his straw hat was full of moving balls of downy feather. Her first reaction was to go up to them, grab the hat and all its chicks, and spend the rest of the evening with the babies. But then she caught sight of Baskerville in her peripherals and a stirring of anger fluttered in her chest. There was something she had to take care of first; chicks could wait. 

            “Aunt Em,” she began, stomping across the threadbare grass to where the woman was standing. She didn't receive a reply, and spoke louder. “Aunt Em!” Distracted hazel eyes flitted in her direction, but the woman's hands were full of squirming chicks and she had no time for her niece, it seemed. Seras was used to her aunt's brash ways, however, and leaned against the incubator as she continued. “Just listen to what that old Ms. Winkle did to Basker—”

            “Oh, Seras, _please_!” Aunt Em exclaimed, rolling her eyes and turning away as she deposited the fluttering chicks into a smaller box. “We're trying to count!” One of the chicks made a break for it, trying its best to fly away, and Seras caught it before it could fall to its death. Aunt Em took it from her and arched one sparse brow, mouth set in a thin line. Seras glared back, being stubborn without  belligerence.

            “But she hit him, and—”

            “Don't bother us now, love.” Her uncle gave her a little pat on the shoulder as he passed by, emptying his hat. Where her aunt was stern and impatient, her uncle was _too_ patient and never raised his voice, all too willing to take a passive seat in any altercation. He began to refill the floppy straw hat,   which seemed to work just perfectly as a makeshift basket. “This old incubator's gone bad and we're likely to lose a lot of our chicks.”

            “Oh, the poor things...” Seras took one and held it close, as if she could shield the tiny life from the inevitable with her own body warmth. The chick wiggled in her hands, beady eyes watching her carefully. “Oh... but Aunt Em,” she continued, ignoring her uncle's quiet order to leave them alone, “Ms. Winkle hit Baskerville with a rake just because she says he chases her dumb old cat every day! And she says he gets into her garden, but he doesn't!”

            “Seventy,” Aunt Em muttered to Uncle Henry, before turning around in a whirl of modestly long skirts and throwing the full weight of a disapproving expression onto her niece. “Not now, Seras! We're very busy!”

            “He doesn't do it every day, only once or twice a week! And he can't catch that old cat of hers anyway,” Seras stammered, running out of breath as she hurried to say her piece. “And now she says that she's going to get the—”

            “Seras, Seras! _Please_!” She waved her on with a jerk of her hand before turning back to the incubator, which was still half-full of chicks. Dejected, Seras sighed before shuffling back across the yard, kicking at the clumps of grass with her boots until they lay flat and benign before her. Looking around the bleak yard, she saw another, larger huddle around her uncle's old farm cart and went to investigate.

            The cart had lost its wheel the day before, and the farm's hired help was pitching in all efforts to get it fixed again. The two older men, Mr. Dornez and Mr. Fargason, were holding up either ends of the bed with straining arms while the younger, Mr. Bernadotte, crawled around on the ground beneath the cart. She stopped by Mr. Bernadotte's boots, tilting her head just enough to see the auburn sheen of his long braid. Mr. Dornez smiled at her, his arms shaking as they held up the heavy load.

            “How's she coming?” Mr. Fargason called, his voice tight.

            “Take it easy,” Mr. Dornez warned. Between the two, Mr. Fargason was older and his back wasn't what it used to be. Seras considered whether or not she could help, but when she moved forward a shake of the head from Mr. Fargason had her stepping back obediently. Just then, Mr. Dornez's hand slipped and there was a loud curse from beneath the cart. Seras's hands flew over her mouth and Baskerville let out a bark as Mr. Dornez adjusted his grip quickly. Boots dragged along the ground, pulling out the red-faced Frenchman until he was able to sit up and glare up at the other men.

            “You got my finger!” he growled, one hand clutching his other.

            “Well, move it!” Mr. Fargason replied sarcastically, clapping him lightly on the back of the head before leaning down with a grunt to check the wheel. “Lucky it wasn't your head.” Mr. Dornez took over the wheel with Mr. Bernadotte, who had nursed his finger enough to know that it wasn't broken, and Mr. Fargason grabbed a metal pail and set off for the hog pen. Seras followed at a safe distance, watching with some intrigue as the man gathered up the slops. When he was finished, she casually looped his arm through hers.

            “Mr. Fargason, what am I supposed to do about that Ms. Winkle?” she grumbled as they walked, looking up at his balding head. “Just because Baskerville chases that old cat sometimes—”

            “Listen, Kitten,” he replied absently, shaking his arm from her grasp. “I have to get those hogs in, not now.” Seras frowned after him, nose wrinkled.

            “Listen, _ma cher;_ you aren't using your head,” Mr. Bernadotte called after her, tapping his own forehead for emphasis. “You'd think you didn't have any brains.”

            “I have so got brains!” Seras protested, her foot giving a little stomp of defiance.

            “Well, why don't you use them?” Mr. Bernadotte laughed, climbing up into the wagon. “When you come home from the Academy, don't go by Ms. Winkle's house. Then Baskerville can't get into the garden, and you'll stay out of trouble, _no_?” 

            “No,” Seras answered sarcastically, crossing her arms. “You just aren't listening.” Mr. Bernadotte sniffed haughtily, swinging the hammer around in his hand.

            “Your head's not made of straw, you know,” he pointed out before promptly smashing the fingers of his other hand with the errant hammer. She bit back a laugh at his expense before turning away. Mr. Fargason was having trouble with the hogs, it seemed, and she went back over to try and help.

            “Form formations! Get in line, all of you!” he snarled, swinging the bucket wildly. “Get in there before I make dime banks out of you!” He grabbed a piece of lumber from the barn and began poking at pig tails, to the surprise and anger of the pigs themselves. Seras hopped onto the fence and balanced expertly, watching them swarm the pen. “Listen, soldier,” he grunted as he fed them, “Are you going to let that Ms. Winkle try and buffalo you? She's nothing to be scared of,” he insisted, throwing the lumber back into the barn. “Have some courage!”

            “I'm not scared of her,” she quipped as she walked along the railing, arms held out for balance.

            “Next time she squawks at you, just go up and spit in her eye!” he joked, laughing heartily. Seras turned to berate him for such a bad idea—if Aunt Em heard of her spitting in any eyes, she'd go without supper and it would be her pig tail being paddled with lumber, even at nineteen. But her boot couldn't turn as fast as the rest, throwing her off balance. “That's what I'd do,” Mr. Fargason said, looking up only to gasp in shock as the girl fell, arms pinwheeling, into the rowdy pigpen.

            “Oh! Oh!” Seras squealed, being trampled by the hungry hogs and unable to find her feet. “Mr. Fargason!” she called in a blind panic. “Help me!” She felt her leg get trapped in the barbed wire of the fence and it yanked at her police slacks, scratching the skin beneath. Then, strong, deft hands untied her and before she knew it, she was picked up like a child and carried out of the pen to be sat down on the wagon. The three men crowded around her, checking her over before assuring her and themselves that she was alright.

            “I say, Miss Seras,” Mr. Dornez gasped, as though it had been him in the pen instead of her. “Are you alright?”

            “I'm alright, Mr. Farga—why, Mr. Fargason!” she couldn't help but laugh, seeing the old man sweating and pale. “I think you're as scared as I am!”

            “What's the matter, old man? Did a little piglet make a coward out of you?” Mr. Bernadotte teased.

            “And just _what_ is going on here?” Aunt Em was suddenly in the midst of them with all her fury, scattering the men in her wake. “There's work to be done! If you don't get to work, I know three farmhands that are going to be out of a job! Oh, don't you make excuses, Mr. Dornez. I saw you over there playing with your contraptions. That goes for you too, Mr. Bernadotte!” The men looked put-out, but obligingly turned back to the half-finished wagon.           

            “Yes, ma'am, but one day they'll have a statue of me in this town, and—”

 

            “Well don't start posing for it now!” Mrs. Victoria snapped, waving his outstretched hand away before showing them a plate covered with a cloth. “Here, I don't expect you to work on an empty stomach. Have some crullers.” The men eagerly attacked the food, the first things they had eaten since lunch. “Just fried,” she said proudly, and then allowed Seras to take one as well.

            “You see,” Mr. Fargason explained breathlessly, still trying to redeem himself and his coworkers, “Seras was walking on the rail, and—”

            “It's no place for Seras around a pigsty!” Aunt Em scowled at them both. “You quit pestering Mr. Fargason and let him feed those hogs, before they worry themselves into anemia.” she demanded. Seras let out a heartfelt sigh.

            “Aunt Em....” Seras shook her cruller at her aunt. “Really. You know what Ms. Winkle said about what she was going to do to Baskerville?” She didn't wait for an answer. “She said she'd—”

            “Now Seras,” Aunt Em practically begged in exasperation. “Stop imagining things. You always get yourself into a fret over nothing. Now you just help out today and find yourself a place where you won't get into any trouble!” She patted Seras's shoulder in a way that was probably meant to be comforting, but instead only made the poor girl feel even less certain that she was really being heard. She looked back at her once before hurrying back into the house, the plate of crullers bouncing along in her hands. Seras watched her go, slowly eating on her food, before looking down at her faithful companion. No matter what anyone else said, Baskerville always listened, though there wasn't much he could do to help.

           “Someplace where there isn't any trouble,” she repeated slowly. The sentence tasted bland on her tongue. “Do you suppose there is such a place?” Baskerville took the bit of cruller that she offered him. “There must be! But it's not a place you can get to by a boat, or a train, or even a plane. It's a place far away,” she said softly, sitting on a hay bale and staring out across the countryside, the breeze lifting her hair. “Behind the moon, beyond the rain....” The dog tilted his head as from inside the kitchen, the sound of music began to play.

            _Somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high—_


	2. Ms. Winkle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: My father says that when I was about two, the only movie I would sit down and watch all the way from beginning to end was The Wizard of Oz. Even now, it's still one of my all-time favorite movies, to watch when I need a pick-me-up and something to sing along to. I do admit, however... it's a little campy compared to today's standards. :D More of the charm, I guess?

            Down the same lane that Seras Victoria had been running earlier, a bicycle whirred as it passed by the asphalt road and down the packed earth towards Victoria Farm. The rider was a female, younger than Aunt Em but older than Seras, her long hair streaming behind her and a look of permanent irritation on her freckled face. She urged the bicycle faster, the large crate on the back throwing it off balance and forcing her to pedal harder.

 

            Riding into the lane that separated the farm from the road, she rolled to a stop next to the Victoria's whitewashed gate. Uncle Henry, who was touching up the white paint now that the chicks were safe and the cart fixed, raised his straw hat to her when he saw her dismount. No one in town liked Ms. Winkle, but she was a powerful woman and it was folly to be uncivilized towards her. She pursed her lips at him in reply, her sharp eyes looking him over before sniffing.

 

            “Herr Victoria.” Her tone was clipped, already not a good sign. Uncle Henry let it roll over him like water on a duck's back, his expression never changing from polite indifference.

 

            “Hello, Ms. Winkle.” She strode up to him, the large crate in her arms. He held up his paintbrush in a silent reply, and she looked around before placing it gingerly on the dusty ground and moving through the gate, taking care that only the tips of her fingers touched the wet paint on the top of the whitewashed boards. She looked him over once more before raising herself to full height.

 

            “I want to speak,” she began in a stern German accent, “to you and your wife about Seras.”

 

            “Seras, eh?” He mused aloud, tilting his head. “What's Seras done?”

 

            “What's she done?” she repeated quietly. “What's she done!?” She was shouting now, brandishing one pantsuit-clad leg at him. “I'm all but lame from this bite on my leg!”

 

            “She bit your leg!?” Uncle Henry exclaimed in shock, mouth falling open. Ms. Winkle's eyes bugged, but she seemed to give him the benefit of the doubt.

 

            “ _Nein_ , _nein_! The dog!” Uncle Henry gave a little 'oh' of understanding.

 

            “She bit her dog.” This time, a teensie smile of amusement graced his normally placid features. Realizing his joke, the woman glared him down bitterly.

 

            “ _Nein_.” She stomped up the sidewalk and towards the house, where a less amused ear would be waiting. He followed slowly, raising his eyes to heaven and gathering what strength he could. Once inside, he saw his wife offer the woman a seat before taking her own seat again. He leaned against the wall, watching as Seras attentively peeked from the relative safety of her bedroom.

 

            “That dog is a menace to the community!” Ms. Winkle complained, hands in her lap as she eyed Mrs. Victoria over her glasses. Both man and wife looked around the hall border towards Seras's room, where a black snout was pressed close to his master's legs. Baskerville had always been a model of patience and good breeding, even if he was a mutt that had wandered off the moor. They'd never known him to bite anyone, or even show violent tendencies other than those that came naturally to a dog, such as the instinct to chase the chickens every now and again. Uncle Henry glanced at his wife with a raised brow before turning back to Ms. Winkle, who was saying, “I'm taking him first thing to the sheriff tomorrow and make sure he's destroyed!”   


            “ _Destroyed_!” At the word, Seras burst from her room and ran up to stand next to her aunt's chair. “Baskerville?!” She looked at her aunt, then at the woman in the guest chair. “You can't! You mustn't! Oh, Aunt Em, Uncle Henry!” she ran to her uncle, sounding more like the child that had come to live with them rather than the woman she was now. “You won't let her, will you?” she pleaded. Uncle Henry actually looked troubled, but he leaned towards her comfortingly, one hand in his pocket.

 

            “Of course we won't,” he assured her quietly. “Uh, eh, will we, Em?” he prompted, looking over at his wife. Seras came back, passing by the dog in question, who was watching Ms. Winkle warily from the hall, in case she came at him with another rake.

 

            “Oh, Aunt Em, Baskerville didn't know what he did was wrong,” she explained quickly, her blue eyes solemn. “I'm the one that ought to be punished; I let him go into her garden,” she admitted, cheeks reddening. “You can send me to bed without supper and I won't complain.” She touched Aunt Em's forearm, an anchoring gesture in the face of her growing panic. Ms. Winkle, who had been listening with an angry expression, now pointed a bony finger at Aunt Em.

 

            “If you don't let me take that dog, I'll bring a damn suit that'll take your whole farm!” she threatened darkly. “There's a law protecting folks against dogs that bite!” Seras listened to this was mingled shock and outrage, and Baskerville let out a low whine as he seemed to sense her anger. Aunt Em was frozen in the chair, her face one of disbelief. At the sound of the dog, she shook her head and seemed to come to her senses, sitting up straighter in her rocking chair.

 

            “How will it be if she keeps him tied up,” she offered, hands fisting in her skirts. “He's really gentle... with gentle people, that is,” she added sharply, eyes narrowing at the disliked woman.

 

            “Well, that's for the sheriff to decide,” Ms. Winkle stated, pulling a folded slip of paper from her suit pocket and handing it over. “Here's an order that allows me to take him... unless you want to go against the law, that is,” she said with a cruel smile of victory. Aunt Em took the paper, looked at it, and her face paled. She handed it to Uncle Henry, who came over from his place against the wall and took it. When his face grew grave and drawn as well, Seras began to fight back the sobs that threatened to escape her throat. She ran to the hall and threw her arms around the dog, as if that would somehow prevent them from taking her. Uncle Henry took a deep breath as he read the paper, and then folded it back and closed his eyes.

 

            “We can't go against the law, Seras.” Aunt Em's normally strong voice was thin and shaky, which only made Seras feel all the worse. She tightened her arms around Baskerville, who licked her cheek. The sound of his wagging tail could be heard hitting the wall. “I'm afraid... that poor Baskerville has to go.” There was the hint of tears in her voice as well, though they were much more controlled than her nieces.

 

            “Now you're seeing reason,” Ms. Winkle agreed, brow arching as she stood.

 

            “No, no, no...” Seras's chest began to heave as Uncle Henry gently pried her arms away. “No, no!” she shrieked, beside herself with grief. “I won't let you take him!” She rushed over to Ms. Winkle, who was surveying the scene quietly. “You go away, or I'll bite you myself!” she threatened, teeth bared as she backed the German woman into a corner. Ms. Winkle's face was bewildered as Aunt Em leaned up out of her chair.

 

            “Seras!” she admonished. Seras looked back at her, then at Ms. Winkle, slowly backing away.

 

            “You—You wicked old witch!” Tears began rolling down her cheeks. “Aunt Em, please, _please_ don't let them take Baskerville...” she cried, hands covering her eyes. She missed the expression of pain in her aunt's eyes, but the woman said nothing. There was nothing to say—the life of one dog was the price to pay in order to keep the three of them alive and well. She looked down at her hands, shoulders trembling.

 

            “I've got an order!”

 

            “Henry... take him.” There was a moment of silence, and then Seras burst into loud tears.

 

            “No!” Uncle Henry shouldered past her, face solemn as he took Baskerville by the red collar. The dog walked calmly with him out the door and down the walk to where the crate waited by the bicycle.

 

            “The idea,” Ms. Winkle clucked, shaking her head at the thought of one dog causing so much trouble. Baskerville let out a whine as Henry shut him up in the crate, and then there was the sound of it being loaded onto the carrier wagon behind the bicycle. Seras listened, biting her nails as she looked fretfully around the room, and then with one last heaving sob she ran down the hall and slammed her door shut before her aunt could catch her. Aunt Em stood in the hallway, looking at the closed door and listening to the muffled sounds of the distraught girl crying into her pillow, her own body sagging with the weight of her sorrow. Her hands fisted at her side and when she spun around, her eyes flashed in righteous, protective anger.

 

            “Rip van Winkle, just because you own half the county, that doesn't mean you have the power to run the rest of us!” she swore, her nose inches from the other woman's. Uncle Henry, who had come back inside, shook his head as his eyes widened. His wife ignored him. “For twenty-three years I've been dying to tell you what I thought of you.” She paused, her jaw working as she stood on the precipice of a dangerous cliff. Uncle Henry looked down at his shoes, hands going back into his pockets. “And now—” She took a deep breath, her eyes watering as her voice broke, “well, being a Christian  woman I can't say it!”

 

            Ms. Winkle was left in the foyer, mouth agape, and Uncle Henry had to sit down to hide his smile, scratching the back of his head. Aunt Em left to go comfort her niece as best she could, and the meanest woman in the county left without looking back, muttering to herself as she climbed upon her bike and took off for the sheriff's department.

 

            “ _Der nerv dieser Hinterwäldlern...”_


	3. The Count: Juggler and Sleight of Hand Extraordinaire

            The crate, for all it was worth, was quite adept at keeping animals in. Uncle Henry, though he could have kept the tyings loose, had properly locked it up when he'd loaded Baskerville into the carrier. But no one could have expected that the dog would simply go _through_ the crate without denting a single plank of wood, morphing through the wall without a sound and landing on the lane, shaking himself. Ms. Winkle didn't seem to notice if the crate became lighter, so fixated was she on the absurdity of her nearest neighbors and their hatred of her.

 

            Baskerville watched her leave, eyes seeming to glow in the dying light of the sunset before turning south and heading home to his master. She had been crying as the man had loaded him into the crate, and he was anxious to see that she was unharmed. He glided like a shadow through the farmyard, scattering chickens as he cleared the window in one leap before landing on his master's bed. She was kneeling at the foot, head pillowed on her arms as she sniffed and settled down from her crying spell. At the sudden weight, she lifted her head and gasped when she saw what it was.

 

            “Oh, Baskerville! I got you back, you came back!” For a long moment, she did nothing more than bury her face in his shaggy chest and breathe in his dog smell. He licked the top of her head, tail thumping against the coverlet. She looked up at him, scratching him behind the ears with a smile before it fell suddenly from her face. “They'll be coming back for you in a minute,” she predicted, gnawing her lip. “We've got to get away... we've got to _run_ away.”

 

            If she had been of a clearer mind, she would have thought about the grief that running away would put her aunt and uncle in. She would have realized that a nineteen year old with no job, no money, and no food couldn't make it far on her own, and that they could find her very easily. But the air was thick with the coming storm, she was frightened and angry at her relations for letting Ms. Winkle take her dog, farm or no farm, and she wasn't sure how in the world she could hide Baskerville on her own. Perhaps if she'd asked, they could have put him in the barn and lied to the sheriff, but she didn't ask.

 

            She was already in her nightgown, but she pulled out a white button-down shirt and the pinafore-style dress that Aunt Em had made for her once she'd grown out of the old one. They were church-going clothes, but a runaway ought to start off on the right foot with the right impression. She put her nightgown and her police uniform into her suitcase along with a few odds and ends, deodorant and a toothbrush. She also grabbed a basket, filling it with mementos and other useless things that she erroneously thought might come in handy on the road. But, such is the nature of youth, and she lowered herself from the window and beckoned to her beloved dog before setting off opposite the sun, towards the east.

 

            At first she walked briskly, but after some time she was forced to slow and take a more leisurely pace. Baskerville walked alongside her, sometimes running after a bird or some imagined threat in the bushes, other times taking the position behind her or in front protectively. They passed the turnoff towards town, passed fields of clover and farmland and wildflower meadows, and as the sun set and the dusky twilight turned the sepia landscape a duller blue with the coming night, she passed over the bridge that led across Bank Creek, the furthest she had ever been from home. 

 

            Baskerville barked and she turned to see the flicker of firelight shining off the creek bed, bouncing from the hillside that the bridge was built on. Curiosity overcame her wariness of strangers and she peered over the hill to see a covered wagon. She heard a quiet humming, as of one deep in thought, and read the painted letters on the wagon inquisitively.

 

Count Alucard: Proclaimed by the Crowned Heads of Europe  
Let Him Read Your PAST, PRESENT, and FUTURE in his magic crystal!  
(Also, spells and slight of hand)

 

            Walking down the embankment, she decided that it wouldn't to take a look at someone who was claimed by Crowned Heads, though she wondered what she might do if he tried to speak to her. Turning the corner, she found the source of the firelight, and the man seated there was, at first glance, frightening. She could easily imagine him a magician, a dark wizard of some sort who could see the future. Dressed in a red traveling cloak and hat, she could see nothing of his face other than a long nose, nothing of his features other than two spindly legs clad in black boots, arms resting on the knees.

 

            She was content to stare silently and then pick her way back up the embankment and go on without bothering him, but Baskerville amiably wandered up to the fire, tail swishing from side to side in welcome. She put a hand on her mouth to stop herself from calling out to him, afraid of what the man might do if he turned and saw a hulking black shadow looming beside him. But the man moved, one gloved hand rising from his knee to rub the dog's head.

 

            “And who might you be?” The voice startled her, smooth and soft as the bubbling creek he sat next to, warm as the fire before him, dark as the shadows of the twilight all around them. She wondered if he was talking to Baskerville, or to her. She thought she was well-hidden in shadow, but perhaps he'd seen her after all? She took a tentative step backwards, and he turned his head to look at her. She could see now why his face was so indistinguishable—he wore thick glasses with amber lenses. _Just the sort a magician might_ , she thought with a mental nod, though in all reality she'd never seen a magician in her life. The mouth opened and the sensuous voice came to her again through the night.

 

            “No, wait—don't tell me.” He studied her for a moment in the firelight before offering her a half-grin, lips twisting to the side. “You're a _vampire_.” Seras blinked in surprise, but shook her head. “No?” Another half-grin. “You're visiting your granny, who is ill in bed.” She looked down at her clothes, at the basket and suitcase, and then at him. “No, no, of course not.” He turned back to the fire, and seemed to ponder for a moment. “You're running away.”

 

            “How'd you guess?” she teased, coming forward to the warmth of the flickering flames. He offered her a seat on a log and she took it, spreading out her dress neatly before crossing her ankles and resting her hands in her lap.           

 

            “I never guess. I know.” He scrutinized her again, and this time she could see more of his face in the firelight. He was a man of perhaps nine and thirty, younger by some than her Uncle Henry but without the wrinkles and graying hairs that her uncle had. His eyes, piercing behind the amber lenses, were dark; she couldn't distinguish a color. “Now, why are you running away?” Those odd eyes went down to her boots and back quickly, as if taking stock of her. “They don't understand you at home—no.” She blushed under his x-ray gaze.

            “No, my dear,” he repeated softly. “You want to see other lands. Big cities, big mountains, big oceans.”

 

            “Why, it's like you read what was inside of me,” she whispered, awed. Did he really have magical powers? Was he really a count? She licked her lips, missing the way his eyes followed the movement. “Please, Count, why can't we go with you to see the Crowned Heads of Europe?”

 

            “You know some?” he asked absently, before looking over at the wagon. “Oh, you mean that.” He hummed thoughtfully once more, tapping his boot against the ground. “Sorry, but I never do anything without consulting the crystal first.” He stood and motioned towards the door. “Let's go inside.” Seras stood as well, hesitating with one finger hovering near her mouth, ready to be chomped down upon. Baskerville nudged her gently with his head as he walked into the wagon behind the man, and she decided that if he wasn't frightened, she had no reason to be.

 

            The innards of the wagon were all cluttered, things hanging and piled up everywhere. Seras stared around at the different things spread out about the various surfaces, startled when a hand tapped her shoulder and she was offered a chair. Taking a seat, she put her basket in her lap and her eyes fell upon the magical crystal itself, suspended on a tripod with elegantly carved legs. She saw herself reflected in it and took in a breath excitedly.

 

            “Close your eyes,” the Count said, and she yielded without protest as he took her basket from her. He rummaged quietly though the basket, brows drawn as long fingers separated the pile of useless junk. “It will help you be better in tune with the Infinite.” Baskerville helpfully picked up a photograph and handed it to him. The two shared a look where something passed between their eyes, and then the Count glanced at the picture before placing it back in the basket and covering it with the handkerchief once more. “We can't do these sorts of things without consulting the Infinite.” Seras nodded, eyes still screwed shut. “Open them, now.”

 

            She opened them, caught by surprise by the sight of the man without his glasses and hat. He looked wild, his hair even more unruly than her own, and she held up a hand to her blonde locks as she stared. His eyes were a dulled red, it seemed, but perhaps it was only a trick of the candlelight. She bit her lip and he smirked at her before pulling the magic crystal towards him and dropping his eyes to gaze into its shimmering depths.

 

            “I see a house, with a picket fence. And a barn with a weather vane in the shape of... a running horse.” His voice was low and hypnotic, and Seras felt herself being drawn in by something. Was it magic? She looked into the crystal as if she could see it herself.

 

            “That's our farm,” she whispered. Nodding, he continued.

 

            “And out front, here is a woman with a polka-dot dress. Her face is careworn.”

 

            “Aunt Em.” She was mesmerized by the crystal, oblivious to the man watching the beauty before him through his dark bangs.

           

            “Aunt Emmmm....” He dragged the last syllable out until it became a hum. “Oh, but what's this?” His voice was false shock. “She's crying. Someone has hurt her. Someone has just about broken her heart.” Seras's face crumpled as she stared down into the crystal.

 

            “Me?”

 

            “You? Well,” He leaned forward, eyes boring into skull. “It's someone she _loves_ very much,” he said, though it sounded nearly cruel and sarcastic. “Someone whom she's taken care of in sickness.” Seras was focused on the crystal, not even feeling the brush of a gloved hand that moved the hair away from her neck and behind her shoulder, not even seeing the glint of teeth, sharper than normal, in the man's mouth.

 

            “I had the measles once, and she stayed right by me every minute.” Seras's voice sounded sleepy, her thoughts completely woven in the spell the man had conjured for her in the crystal. It was only when the man was near her throat, teeth bared, that the spell was broken by Baskerville. The dog barked loudly, hackles raised as he clambered to his feet and snarled, more eyes opening in its head compared to the two usually there. The Count leaned back in his seat, nose wrinkled in distaste as Seras twisted in her chair. “Baskerville! We don't act rudely when we're guests in someone else's home!” She seemed entirely unaware of the danger she'd been in just a moment before.

 

            “What's this?” She turned back to see the Count, looking slightly disappointed, still looking down into the crystal. “She's falling back on the bed, she's putting her hand on her heart and—ah, the crystal's gone dark,” he sighed in defeat, shaking his head.

 

            “What, no!” Seras leapt to her feet. “Something must be wrong! I've got to get back, I can't do this!” She scrambled for her basket and suitcase, Baskerville barking and jumping around her as he ushered her towards the door.  The Count stood, following her outside as he slid the glasses back on his face.

 

            “What about Europe?” he asked her genially, as if he couldn't understand her rush. He frowned at the dog, whose eyes glowed red in return. Seras turned on her heel, offering him a quick curtsy.

 

            “Oh, I can't! She may really be sick; she needs me!” She ran up the embankment as fast as she could, calling to him when she reached the bridge. “Goodbye, Count Alucard! Thanks a lot!” The wind blew strongly, lifting her skirts and buffeting her until she nearly fell over the side of the bridge. “Goodbye!” she called again, voice lost on the wind as she ran towards home. The Count watched her go, glasses slid to the end of his nose so that he could see her clearly in the darkness, his eyes a scarlet  gleam in the night. He stared thoughtfully after his intended supper, and then at the dog that had dared to stop him. He smiled: a full, toothy smile now, one that made him look the savage and bloodthirsty creature he was.

 

            “Better get her to shelter, mongrel, if you care that much about her. There's a storm coming,” he warned, though it sounded more like a promise. “Poor lost Kitten,” he purred smugly as he turned to go back inside the wagon. “I do _hope_ she makes it home alright.”


End file.
